Shepherd's Cross Read online

  ‘Honestly,’ Kate replied. ‘I haven’t seen her. Nor was I expecting to. I was in the house all day yesterday, so I would have been in had she called by. She is alright, isn’t she?’

  The sixty-four million dollar question – the question that anybody involved in the early stages of a missing person’s case always automatically asked. Cara nodded and smiled unconvincingly. ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ she said, checking her watch to mentally record the time of her conversation with Kate. ‘Listen, Kate, could you do me a favour? If you do see her, could you let me know as soon as possible? I don’t think she could have left The Cross, so I’m sure she’ll turn up sooner or later.’

  ‘Of course. I’m off to church soon, so I’ll ask around. I’ll let you know immediately if I hear anything. Oh God, I hope nothing’s happened to her.’

  Cara placed her hand on Kate’s shoulder in an effort to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s fine. You know Bronwyn…she’s her own girl.’ Having said their farewells, Cara headed off up Juniper Street, trying hard to prevent her concern for Bronwyn from turning into panic.

  When she reached the far end of the street, she rounded the corner and quickened her pace as best she could, given the slippery conditions of the footpath. Two minutes later, she was standing outside another house, breathing hard as she tried to compose herself before pressing the doorbell. Half of her didn’t want to press it: the optimistic, rational half, which believed in herself and her ability to handle whatever the day was going to throw at her. The other half, however, didn’t share the same level of confidence - all it could think of was a missing woman and a Station full of dead people. And it was that half, the pessimistic, I-can’t-do-this-alone half, which on this occasion was going to get the better of her.

  Cara pressed the doorbell and prayed to God that he was home.

  Chapter 2

  9.00am: Bill Thompson trudged his way through the churchyard to the large oak doors and reached into his coat pocket for the key. It had been this way ever since he had begrudgingly accepted the warden’s job almost eight years ago. Joan, his long-suffering wife, had pushed him into it; at least that’s how he saw it. She’d told him that it would do him good, that it would give him something to do now that he’d retired and was at a loose end. He had tried to tell her that he was perfectly happy being at a loose end, that he was slipping into a life of post-work laziness quite comfortably thank you very much, but she’d nagged away at him until eventually he surrendered; just like she’d done ever since he’d foolishly said ‘I do’ forty-five years earlier. So here he was, plodding through the same mind-numbing routine as he did every damn Sunday morning, come hail, snow, rain or sunshine, too weary of his wife’s persistence to dare throw the towel in; and besides, there wasn’t exactly a long queue of hopeful successors chomping at the bit to fill his shoes.

  As he pulled the key from his pocket, he noticed that one of the doors was standing ajar, only slightly, but creating enough of a break in the norm to throw him off guard. He looked behind him at the path leading through the churchyard: aside from his own, there were no other fresh footsteps to suggest that Reverend Jackson had beaten him to it. Not that Thompson thought for a second that he would have done: Jackson was the kind of vicar who tended to do things on the hoof; usually turning up two or three minutes before his congregation. Even so, as far as Thompson was aware, Jackson was the only other key-holder to All Saints’ Church, so unless there’d been another break-in, there was nobody else who could have unlocked the door.

  Thompson sighed. He didn’t know why, perhaps it was due to an indoctrinated sense of courtesy, but he felt the need to knock before entering. When no answer was forthcoming, he took a deep breath, and with a sense of trepidation at what he might find, he opened the door and walked inside. The door opened directly into the chancel – there was no porch or separate entrance area – so it came as a relief to discover that everything appeared to be in order. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be any signs of vandalism or theft; no overturned pews, no smashed flower vases or graffiti.

  His mind now at rest, he closed the door behind him and headed down the aisle towards the altar, under which were stored the various sacred vessels and ornaments he would need to retrieve for the Eucharist. It was only when he reached the step that led to the nave that he noticed a large, dried pool of blood on the floor. His eyes followed a trickle of blood, which led his focus away from the larger pool in the direction of the hidden recess by the altar, where Thompson knew that Reverend Jackson spent much of his time drinking, reading and half-heartedly preparing his sermons. ‘Reverend Jackson,’ he said, looking over to the recess. ‘Are you there?’ He wondered what on earth the vicar had managed to do to himself this time. He moved towards the recess, following the splattered line of blood as if he were Hansel following the trail of breadcrumbs back to the woodcutter’s house.

  He reached the walled side of the recess and edged his way around it, not expecting to find anything or anyone hiding on the other side, but acting cautiously nonetheless – just in case. Looking down at the floor, he could see that a second pool of blood had spread its way from behind the recess and around the base of the wall. Ordinarily, Bill Thompson was a pragmatic, stoical man: the kind of man who called a spade a spade and preferred to deal in facts rather than emotions; but even he couldn’t prevent the more grisly possibilities from entering his mind, no matter how ridiculous they might have been. ‘Oh, bugger it,’ he said, throwing caution to the wind and peeking around the side of the wall.

  It took all his strength to stifle a scream as his brain processed the image in front of him. Reverend Jackson was sat naked in his chair, slumped over his desk as if he had passed out or fallen asleep. Even without seeing his face, Thompson could tell that the vicar’s throat had been sliced open: the wound had stretched right across his throat and around the back of his neck. It was almost as if his attacker had tried to behead him, only to decide half-way through that it wasn’t worth the effort. There was blood everywhere, and Jackson’s blanched skin led Thompson to believe that the wound to his throat must have drained him of every last drop. Thompson didn’t want, didn’t dare, to move him, but he could just about make out this morning’s sermon lying underneath Jackson’s torso on the small writing desk that propped him up.

  But it was the vicar’s back that held Thompson’s attention. Carved into it were rough, deep cuts that tore the flesh aside, creating a series of irregular lines of clotted dark red and black blood; lines that joined together to form a jagged, uneven inscription that looked as if it had been written by a young child learning how to hold a pencil for the first time. The inscription sprawled across his entire back like a rambling tattoo, and although it may have been rudimentary in terms of presentation, there was no mistaking the words, which clearly spelled out ‘DEUS EST MORTUUS’.

  Thompson spoke the words aloud, slowly and deliberately, wanting to hear how they sounded. ‘DEUS…EST…MORTUUS.’ And again. ‘DEUS…EST…MORTUUS’. ‘DEUS – God – EST – is – MORTUUS – Dead. GOD…IS…DEAD. GOD IS DEAD,’ he repeated, increasingly confident as to the accuracy of the translation.

  The church bell rang out, signalling the time as being a quarter past the hour. He backed away until one of his legs bumped against the side of the altar, causing him to yelp with shock. In half an hour’s time, the bells would begin to ring en masse, summoning the village to Church. Thompson pulled the key from his pocket and stumbled down the aisle, tears filling the eyes of a man who had not cried since childhood. He couldn’t let them see their vicar like this, let alone the message that his killer had so brutally carved into his skin. Reaching the doors, he glanced outside, making sure there was nobody around. When he was confident of being alone, he stepped into the snow and closed the doors behind him, pulling them tightly together and twisting the key in the lock. Checking and rechecking that the doors were locked, he sank to his knees, aware that at any moment he would be seeing his bre
akfast again. With a determined effort, he pulled himself to his feet, and without daring to look back over his shoulder, he took a few deep breaths of fresh air to steady himself, before hurrying away from the Church as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Chapter 3

  9.30am: ‘Are you sure this is wise, Sarge? I mean, it’s not like we have a good reason for going back there. What are we going to ask them anyway – “excuse me, but you wouldn’t happen to have seen a pretty girl by the name of Bronwyn Hess skulking around your estate by any chance?” They’ll think we’re a couple of fruitcakes!’

  ‘I know…you’re probably right,’ replied Jennings. ‘But something’s telling me that those two haven’t come all the way up here to spend a few months swanning around archaeological digs.’

  ‘You didn’t seem to think there was anything dodgy going on when we met with them on Friday. What’s changed your mind?’

  Jennings sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. But ever since they arrived, we’ve had nothing but trouble. That thing on Wilf’s farm, barroom brawls, two dead kids; and now your friend has gone and done a runner. I’m not suggesting that these two are somehow responsible for what’s going on, but let’s be honest; this sort of shit just doesn’t happen in a place like this. I know these people, Cara. There’s practically not a soul in the village that I haven’t had something to do with over the years, and if I haven’t, you can bet your bottom dollar I would’ve heard about them through someone else. But I haven’t got a clue about those two up there. What’s more, I don’t trust them; especially the part about Fellside Hall. I mean, come on: who in their right mind would choose to stay there? The place is falling to bits, and it must be bloody freezing. Nobody likes slumming it…especially rich people.’

  ‘We could always run a check on them at UCL. The phone lines should be up and running in the morning. And if it doesn’t stack up, we’d have more of a reason for going up there than the one we have now.’

  ‘It won’t do any harm to drop by now. Besides, we can always tell them that we’re merely calling by some of the outlying houses to make sure everyone’s okay. Routine business. That would work.’

  Cara nodded and stared out of the Land Rover’s window as it made its way slowly up the lake road towards Fellside Hall. Jennings had failed to convince her that there was any real point in going up there; she couldn’t see the value in it. All the same, she was prepared to go along with his train of thought. Besides, she had to admit to having had reservations about Blackmoor and King from their first meeting. They were rather creepy, and Blackmoor in particular had an unsettling aura about him. Still, she couldn’t see how it was possible that the two of them had anything to do with Bronwyn’s disappearance.

  She’d been so relieved when Jennings had opened the door to her earlier that morning. The very thought of going alone to the Station had terrified her, so much so, that if he hadn’t have answered the doorbell, she couldn’t say for definite whether or not she would have been able to. But he had answered it, and she was grateful to him for his sympathetic response. And if he wanted to take her on a wild goose-chase to Fellside Hall, who was she to argue? Anything was better than the alternative.

  Jennings’s concentration was focused on navigating the snow-covered road as it wound its way along the edge of the frozen lake. Despite having quit three years earlier, he could have murdered a cigarette; his body craving the effect of a nicotine rush. He’d hardly slept a wink all night, unable to shake off the horrific images of Lee and Jed trapped in their cell. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t absolve himself of the blame for their deaths, the guilt pressing down on his shoulders like a tonne of bricks. It had therefore come as a big relief when his Sunday morning had been unexpectedly disturbed by Cara. He had never been so glad to see anyone in his whole life – he was comforted that she needed his help – and for him it was immeasurably more appetising than spending the day cooped up inside, alone with his dark, repetitive thoughts.

  Eventually they reached the tall, wrought-iron gates, just as they had two days earlier. Beyond them, tyre tracks stretched into the distance. ‘They look pretty fresh,’ Jennings noted. ‘I’d say our visitors have either recently just left or come back. Let’s find out.’ Cara climbed out and opened the gates while Jennings remained in the car. When she returned, they began their journey along the long driveway to Fellside Hall.

  Approximately five minutes later, they arrived at the front of the Hall and parked their car alongside the main entrance. Jennings wasted no time hanging around; he was here on Police business, and his lack of sleep had strangled some of the patience he was usually known for. He strode purposefully up to the main entrance, Cara struggling to keep up behind him, and slammed the iron knocker firmly against the wooden door. They didn’t have to wait long before hearing the sound of footsteps approaching from the other side. Several seconds later, the door opened inwards, and the person on the other side smiled warmly as she saw the surprise on Cara’s face.

  ‘Bronwyn!’ Cara shouted. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here? I’ve been worried sick about you. How dare you bugger off like that without telling me? And why did you lie to me about going to see Kate?’

  Bronwyn reacted calmly to her friend’s outburst, smiling and shrugging her shoulders, her body language inferring that Cara was acting like an over-protective mother. ‘Hello, Cara,’ she said, before looking at Jennings and acknowledging him with a courteous nod of her head. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Won’t you come in?’ She opened the door further and beckoned them inside, Cara and Jennings throwing each other a brief, confused glance before entering the Hall.

  ‘There better be a good explanation for this,’ said Cara, following behind Bronwyn as she led them towards another room.

  ‘Don’t worry. All will be revealed.’ She pushed open a pair of large, arched doors that led to what was formerly the Hall’s grand ballroom, although very little remained grand about it now. In the middle of the room was a small circular table, around which sat Benedict Blackmoor, Frank Gowland and Ted Wilson. They were smiling at Cara and Jennings; seemingly unconcerned at being discovered together by the two Police officers. With the exception of a roaring fire and a few randomly placed candles providing warmth and light, the rest of the room was empty – no furniture, decorative accessories or curtains. Blackmoor and the others were dwarfed by the sheer size of the room and the height of the ceiling, which, given its state of disrepair, had obviously been scrubbed and cleaned to make it as presentable as possible. There remained a considerable amount of work needed to fix the broken windows and damp, chipped walls, but an imaginative mind could be forgiven for seeing the potential to restore it to somewhere near its former glory.

  Blackmoor stood up to greet his guests. ‘Well, well - this is a pleasant surprise. Please,’ he said, motioning to two empty chairs by the table. ‘Why don’t you join your friends for a drink? As it happens, we could use your advice.’

  Jennings ignored him and turned his attention to the others. ‘Frank? Ted? What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Calm down, Brian,’ said Wilson. ‘We’re here on business. As I mentioned to you the other day, Mr Blackmoor needs help getting this place tidied up. Frank and I are pulling together a schedule of works for the next few months. Come on,’ he said, pulling a chair from under the table. ‘Join us for a drink. One for the road, eh?’

  ‘Speaking of the road,’ Cara said. ‘How did you get here? Your car’s not outside.’

  Wilson looked across at Blackmoor, stumped by the question. ‘We…errr…we…’

  ‘I brought them here yesterday,’ interrupted Blackmoor. ‘I invited them to stay with me for the night – I felt like giving an impromptu housewarming party. Forgive me, Sergeant Jennings. I should have also invited yourself and PC Jones. Maybe next time, eh?’

  ‘And you, Bronwyn,’ said Cara, turning her attention to her friend. ‘What’s your reason for being here?’

  B
ronwyn’s face beamed with excitement. ‘Oh, Cara – you wouldn’t believe my luck. Emily told me about Mr Blackmoor and Mr King. She happened to mention that they’re archaeological historians, and…well, you know how much I’m interested in local history. Anyway, I bumped into Ted and he offered to introduce me to them. And what’s more, they’ve offered to let me join them on a couple of their excursions. How cool is that?’

  ‘It sounds like an interesting opportunity,’ Cara replied. ‘But why did you lie to me about going to Kate’s? You shouldn’t have done that; you should have been honest with me. I went to her house this morning to check up on you. When she told me she hadn’t seen you…well, you could imagine how frightened I became. Why didn’t you tell me the truth about where you were?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cara,’ said Bronwyn, her face suggesting otherwise. ‘I just didn’t want you to worry about me coming up here for the night. And you would have worried, wouldn’t you? In fact, I bet you would have tried to stop me. Maybe I should have been open with you; either way, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m here, everything’s fine, and there’s no need to worry about me.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here, PC Jones?’ Blackmoor asked. ‘To make sure that the two evil men from London haven’t kidnapped your friend and lured her away to their haunted house? If that is the case, I must admit to being rather disappointed, not to mention upset, by your lowly opinion of us.’

  This time it was Cara and Jennings who found themselves on the back foot. They looked at each other with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. Jennings spoke first. ‘Of course that’s not why we’re here,’ he said, mustering up as much confidence as he could manage. ‘Although I won’t deny that seeing you all here together strikes me as being more than just a little bit weird. However, there’s no reason for you to be suspicious; we’re simply here on a routine visit to make sure that the weather isn’t causing you any problems. Most of the phones are down, so we’re doing a whistle-stop tour of some of the farms and houses outside the village. We thought we’d call by Fellside Hall on the way back.’